Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
The following morning, Ailis expected to be left alone.
After all, if a man placed his betrothed in a chamber fit for linen trunks only to find his own chamber conquered by candles, hortensias, and embroidered sheep, surely he would require a day to recover his dignity.
She had imagined a peaceful morning without him because he was either too mad at her or too busy scowling at someone like he always did.
Maybe she would wander the castle with a little book in hand, discover a forgotten corner where the sun touched the stones sweetly, sketch the shape of the hills beyond the wall, or sit by a window and think grand thoughts about clear skies, traveling roads, and fairy-tale princes.
Instead, she found Gordon waiting for her in the courtyard.
Ailis stopped beneath the archway.
He stood near the stables, already dressed for the day, talking with Malcolm.
His red hair was tied loosely at his nape, his plaid pinned over one broad shoulder, his sleeves rolled to his forearms as though the morning had offended him, and he meant to wrestle it into obedience.
The pale light caught the strong lines of his arms, the calluses on his hands, and the old scar near his temple.
Ailis’ stomach gave an irritating little dip.
Ach, he is annoyingly handsome.
She pressed her lips together and refused to show any signs of being impressed though the idea kept circling in her mind, causing her to look at him a little longer.
The courtyard smelled of wet stone, hay, horse, and peat smoke drifting from the kitchens.
Stable lads hurried with buckets. Hens scratched near the far wall.
A cart stood by the gate, its wheels sunk into mud from the night’s rain.
Men moved along the wall-walk above, and every few moments, someone glanced toward her with open curiosity before remembering themselves and looking away.
Gordon turned, and their gazes met. For one foolish breath, Ailis remembered him standing in his chamber the night before, surrounded by flowers and sheep.
A dangerous color threatened her cheeks. She banished it by force.
Gordon’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if he had seen too much.
“Good mornin’, Ma’am,” he said. His voice was rough from the early hour. It should not have sounded intimate, but it did. That only vexed her more.
Ailis smiled with all the sweetness she could gather. “Good mornin’, Me Laird.”
Malcolm’s mouth twitched as he watched their exchange.
Gordon ignored him. “Ye slept well?”
“Wonderfully,” Ailis said. “The servants sing lullabies at dawn. Did ye ken?”
Malcolm coughed into his fist.
Gordon’s face did not change. “Aye.”
Only that.
Aye. Nay apology or amusement. Nay proper appreciation for her wit.
The man was impossible.
Ailis folded her hands before her. “How lovely.”
Gordon’s gaze lingered on her face for half a heartbeat, and his eyes pinned hers again with an awareness, mayhap. The sort that made the air between them tighten, as though even the horses had the sense to fall quiet.
“Ye’ll need yer strength from this day onward,” he said.
Ailis frowned. “For what?”
Gordon turned toward her again. This time, there was something perilously close to amusement at the edge of his mouth. It was small, nearly hidden beneath the grimness he wore like armor, but Ailis saw it.
“For work,” he said.
She blinked. “Work?”
“Aye.”
The word dropped between them like a stone into a well.
Ailis stared at him, and he began walking.
Apparently, he thought she would follow. She paused for two breaths, refusing to move out of principle. When she noticed Malcolm watching with an unrestrained interest, pride urged her feet to move forward.
She hurried after Gordon, skirts gathered in one hand. “What sort of work?”
“The sort that keeps a household standin’.”
“I had nay realized yer castle was in danger of fallin’ without me.”
“Every castle is.”
Ailis narrowed her eyes at his back. The man had a truly remarkable back. Broad, unyielding, annoyingly well-made. She wished his shoulders were less fine. It would make despising him simpler.
Do nae stare at his shoulders like a foolish milkmaid.
She lifted her gaze to the back of his head instead.
Gordon led her across the courtyard toward the kitchen yard. “Aunt Marion worked. I worked.”
“Ye?” Ailis asked before she could stop herself. She rolled her eyes, her tone deliberately sharp. “I had assumed all ye did was bark orders.”
He glanced back over his shoulder. “I spent most of me childhood scrubbin’ floors, stackin’ wood, muckin’ stalls, and earnin’ every meal in this hall.”
For a moment, she saw him younger. Not this towering, hard-faced laird who filled every doorway and every silence. A boy with dirt under his nails, shoulders too broad too soon, hands already rough from labor. A boy made to earn his food beneath a roof that should have sheltered him freely.
Softness stirred in her chest. She hated how quickly it came.
Gordon turned forward again, his voice hardening as if he regretted letting even that little truth escape. “If ye intend to become a lady of our lands, ye’ll be expected to ken the difference between commandin’ a household and livin’ in one.”
The softness she felt a moment earlier vanished.
Ailis’ chin lifted. “I ken hard work.”
Gordon slowed, and she nearly walked into him. He turned, studying her more carefully now, his green eyes moving over her face as if searching for a crack in her pride. The look made her want to step closer and step back at once. She did neither.
“We practically raised ourselves,” Ailis said. “Me siblings and I. I am nay some spoilt lady like ye assume.”
The words came sharper than she meant, and he nodded. “Good. Then he must ken how to tend to chickens.”
Ailis stopped dead at that, panic striking her into a hiccup.
A hen strutted past her boot as if summoned by insult.
“Chickens?” she repeated, already feeling a chill inside.
Gordon looked back at her, and this time, she was certain he was amused.
“Aye,” he said. “Chickens.”
Ailis stared at him. Then at the kitchen yard ahead where several feathered demons scratched near a low fence, making suspicious little clucking sounds. One particularly plump hen turned its bead-black eye on her with the cold judgment of a dowager at a wedding feast.
Malcolm, who had followed at a distance, leaned against a post with the look of a man about to enjoy himself far too much. Ailis lifted her chin, determined not to show him any weakness.
“Thank ye for this opportunity, Me Laird,” she said, her voice ringing sweetly across the yard. “Truly, I have longed all me life to be honored among poultry.”
Malcolm made a strangled sound.
Gordon’s mouth twitched, and Ailis saw it. Her heart gave one stupid little leap before she crushed it under annoyance.
“Of course, Ma’am,” Gordon said.
He opened the small gate and gestured for her to enter.
Ailis looked from him to the chickens. The hens shifted. One flapped its wings suddenly, and she did not jump. She merely moved with elegant surprise as the hen clucked loudly. She dodged behind him right then, trying to hide.
“Why is that one restless?” she questioned, still letting his wider frame form a shadow around her.
“Which one? Agnes?”
She gasped from her shock. “Ye named it?”
“Marion did.” He almost smiled as he said that, like there was some memory behind naming the chicken.
She felt her heart melting again and quickly stiffened.
Nay, nay, nay… Gordon could never in a million years impress me.
Ailis snatched the small basket of grain from the fence post with more force than necessary. “Tell me what to do.”
Gordon stepped behind her into the pen, and the space immediately felt smaller.
His presence settled at her back, his warmth enveloping her. She felt the faint brush of his plaid against her sleeve. The scent of leather, rain-washed wool, and steel. The low sound of his breath as he leaned slightly closer to see the basket in her hands.
“Scatter it,” he said. His voice came near her ear, and Ailis’ fingers tightened around the basket.
“Like this?” she asked and tossed a handful of grain with far more vigor than needed.
The chickens exploded into chaos, beating their wings and shrieking.
One chicken leaped toward them, and Ailis gasped, staggering back before she could catch herself.
His hand caught her waist immediately, steadying her before she fell and broke her neck. His touch burned through gown and stays, large and firm and shockingly careful.
Ailis froze. So did he. For one suspended moment, the chickens vanished.
The courtyard vanished. Malcolm’s poorly hidden laughter vanished.
There was only Gordon’s hand at her waist, his body close behind hers, and the fierce, sudden awareness that he could have drawn her back fully against him with the smallest pull.
He did not. His fingers flexed once, though, then he released her.
Ailis stepped forward quickly, color climbing her throat before she could forbid it.
“I wasnae scared,” she said, clearing her throat. “I was merely taken aback.”
“Of course.”
She cleared her throat again. “What else do ye need me to do?”
“Once the hens are fed,” he said, “ye’ll help Beth count stores.”
Ailis’ smile faded. “Stores?”
“Grain, salt, fish, dried apples, candles, linen. Keep numbers.”
She stared at him. “Ye mean to make me count candles?”
“The Lady of the Keep must know what her household holds. Every single item.”
Her hands flailed in the air now as she released that exasperated breath. “Ye are a tyrant.”
“Aye,” he said simply.
Ailis looked at him for one long moment, scoffing as she realized he would not back down.
She finally smiled slowly, knowing what she must do.
Let him think he has won this mornin’. Let him drag her through chickens, stores, linens, and every dull duty in his grim castle.
She would make a mess of something sooner or later.
One so grand he would grow weary of her. Then he would send her away, and he would tell Rowan and Callan no alliance was worth her chaos.
Gordon told himself he had business in the solar the next morning.